


A Matter of Trust

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Community: holmestice, Drug Use, Families of Choice, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a well-known fact that Dr John Hamish Watson has trust issues. What most people fail to realise is that there are two sides to every coin, and that every phrase has a double meaning. And Sherlock Holmes? Well. Let’s just say he has trust issues of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yeomanrand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/gifts), [shinychimera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinychimera/gifts).



> Many thanks go out to my britpickers debriswoman and thesmallhobbit. To prettybirdy979 goes my undying gratitude for not only being my longsuffering beta, but cheerleader and fellow brainstormer as well. 
> 
> Dialogue from “A Study in Pink” was taken from arianedevere’s transcript of the episode found in her livejournal.
> 
> Although I tried to make it clear in the telling, I want to play it safe and say that the overdose depicted in this story is accidental, not a suicide attempt. I don’t want to unintentionally trigger anybody.
> 
> This is my gift for yeomanrand and shinychimera in the 2012 holmestice fic exchange.

 

 

 

 

It is a well-known fact, at least to the British Government, that Dr John Hamish Watson has trust issues. After all, it says so right in his therapist’s notes. So it must be true, right?  
  
Well, yes; to a point. Of course, what most people fail to realise is that there are two sides to every coin, and that every phrase has a double meaning. Once again, the therapist had got it the wrong way round.  
  
And Sherlock Holmes? Well. Let’s just say he has trust issues of his own.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Sherlock’s return had been surprisingly lacking in drama. John was angry at first, of course he was, but the chance to have his chosen family reunited was too appealing to resist. At Baker Street he had found the belonging he had been longing for, ever since his parents had died and he had become estranged from Harry. Mrs Hudson filled the role of mother beautifully, and Sherlock had become a brother-in-arms with whom he had a connection that ran deeper than any he had ever had with his sister. Going from Sherlock’s relationship with his own family, John thought Sherlock probably felt that connection just as keenly.  
  
After Sherlock’s fall, John hadn’t been able to move away from the place he had come to identify as his home, or from the only remaining member of his ‘family.’ And when Sherlock came back, he had moved right back in, fitting seamlessly back into their lives, almost as if he had never left. Never mind that two years on the calendar had come and gone.  
  
What bothers John – what _continues_ to bother John – is that he has absolutely no idea _why_ Sherlock doesn’t get along with his family. Sherlock knows everything about John’s past, whether John willingly tells him or not. Their relationship is strangely one-sided in that regard. Sherlock sees _everything,_ yet reveals nothing.  
  
If John wants Sherlock to open up, he can’t be subtle about it. Sherlock will either see right through it, or he won’t cotton on at all. So he decides to use the direct approach in order to catch his friend off guard. The perfect opportunity arises after one of Mycroft’s visits, during which Sherlock sulks and whinges and ends up, once again, chasing his brother off with typical childish behaviour. His mind is distracted, his defences down, and he isn’t paying attention… much.  
  
It almost backfires. Almost.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“So what happened between you and your brother?” John asks after Sherlock drives Mycroft off with his musical caterwauling. “Well, I mean initially, not the whole Moriarty betrayal thing. Because you two had issues way before that happened.”  
  
John thinks that if he casually throws the question out there, Sherlock might answer without thinking. John seems to have forgotten that _not_ thinking isn’t exactly Sherlock’s area.  
  
Sherlock frowns as he turns to face John, violin still tucked beneath his chin. “You mean he never told you? I’m surprised; he didn’t seem to have any reservations about filling you in on pirates and danger nights.”  
  
John swallows. “He said that there was a history; old scores, resentments. That’s all he told me. I don’t understand, Sherlock. Mycroft obviously cares a great deal for you, if his obsessive stalking is anything to go by. Why in the world didn’t you go to him for help as soon as Moriarty made his first move? Because you knew _something_ was going to happen, I know you did.”  
  
“Mycroft doesn’t _care,_ John. Everything he does is due to a misplaced sense of guilt, that’s all. Why don’t you read Kitty Riley’s exposé, if you’re so interested?” He turns his back on John and raises his bow to the violin strings. ”I’m sure my brother didn’t hold back in telling _Moriarty_ everything, including that,” he throws over his shoulder.  
  
“I didn’t believe a word of that drivel,” John bites out, raising his voice. “Why would you – wait a minute. You never actually read the article, did you?”  
  
Sherlock gives him his ‘Why are people such idiots, really, why don’t you just _think_ ’ look. John is used to it by now and it doesn’t faze him a bit. He patiently waits for Sherlock’s answer.  
  
Sherlock huffs. “No. Why would I?”  
  
John leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped. “Well, that explains a lot. You should be a bit grateful towards your brother, you know.”  
  
Sherlock shoots him a look that, if looks could actually kill, would have left John eviscerated. “ _Excuse me?_ ”  
  
“Not everything he told Moriarty was true. In fact, very little of it was.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him. “What are you talking about? The reason people bought all the lies was because they were wrapped up in the truth.”  
  
John shakes his head. “No. Mycroft knew he would come after you, no matter what, so he did what he could to mitigate the damage. He fed Moriarty half-truths and outright lies, hoping to lull him into a false sense of security. Making him think he had the advantage over you. I thought you were aware of all this!”  
  
Sherlock blinks. He peers at John suspiciously. “How do _you_ know this? Did you two become _bosom buddies_ while I was away?” He spits out the words as if they are poison. “Did you meet at his club for drinks and open up about your _feelings?_ ”  
  
“Yes,” John snaps, “we did. We got together and bonded over the fact that we had both failed to protect the person we loved most. Misery loves company and all that.”  
  
Sherlock actually has the grace to look stunned at that statement.  
  
When John realises what he has just said, he tries to cover up with levity. “Your sibling rivalry really has gone too far if you’re jealous of _Mycroft_ , of all people. There aren’t many people I would be willing to get myself blown up for, and only one of them is a Holmes.”  
  
Sherlock snarls, “I am not _jealous_. What a preposterous notion.”  
  
John clears his throat, eyes decidedly not meeting his flatmate’s as he keeps his gaze fixed on the carpet in front of him. “It’s because of Mycroft that your name was eventually cleared. The supposed ‘truth’ wrapped around all of the lies was easily proven false during the investigation, which of course cast doubt on ‘Richard Brook’s’ claims as well.”  
  
John pauses. “It’s also due to your brother that your mother remained safe during your little ‘game’.”  
  
Sherlock freezes. When he turns around, the look he gives John is one of utter devastation.  
  
“Yes,” John forges ahead. “Mycroft told Moriarty that you and he were orphans. That your mother died back when you were in university. The possibility of him threatening and harming her was removed from the board. Imagine my surprise when she showed up at your funeral.”  
  
Sherlock’s face softens for a moment before hardening again. “And yet you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson remained in harm’s way. Well, that’s alright then,” he sneers.  
  
John sighs. “Sherlock, Moriarty already understood how we fitted into your life. He didn’t need Mycroft to tell him that.”  
  
“That’s right,” Sherlock snaps. “Caring is not an advantage, either to me or to the people I would purportedly care about.”  
  
John gives Sherlock a small smile. “You can drop the act, Sherlock. Caring is what ultimately saved the three of us. And you. Thank God for Molly’s inexplicable crush.”  
  
Sherlock snorts. Some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders as he turns to face his flatmate; his expression smooths out into a bland one. John isn’t fooled. He still needs to tread with care.  
  
“Something must have given you reason to believe that Mycroft was capable of actually betraying you. Looking back, you seemed to almost expect it. So at the risk of repeating myself, tell me… what happened between you and your brother?”

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
**JUNE, 1991**  
  
  
  
The two burst into Sherlock’s room, giggling and clutching each other as if they were once again small children rather than fifteen years of age. They collapsed onto Sherlock’s bed, snorting and breathing heavily, chests heaving. The minute they caught their breath, they snuck a glance at each other and broke out into giggles once again.  
  
“Do you think he noticed?” Hannah asked when they got their breath back.  
  
Sherlock waved his hand. “Oh, probably. He is the most observant person in England.”  
  
Hannah snorted. “Do you think it’ll make him change his mind about me visiting him?”  
  
“No! There’s nothing you could do that would make him not be wrapped around your little finger. He’ll just blame me and pretend you had nothing to do with it.”  
  
They both turned their heads at the same time, locking gazes. Sherlock’s lips twitched, Hannah’s face crumpled, and they were both again helpless with laughter.  
  
“That was brilliant,” Hannah exclaimed. “That was… the most ridiculous thing… I’ve ever done. I never would have thought of that hiding place. You are brilliant… absolutely amazing.” She stared at her brother with a look of awed adoration.  
  
Sherlock blushed a deep tomato-red. He ducked his head and murmured, “That’s not what people usually say.”  
  
Hannah grinned. “What do they usually say?”  
  
“Sherlock!” A deep voice rang out. Heavy steps thumped up the stairs and Sherlock’s door burst open.  
  
“What is the meaning of this?” Mycroft exclaimed as he held aloft a dripping wet, mud-encased frog.  
  
Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth, desperately trying to smother his laughter.  
  
“Childish,” Mycroft muttered, eyes sweeping over his twin siblings, eyes narrowing as they landed on Hannah. “Don’t tell me he got you roped into this too, Han. You really shouldn’t let him influence you so much.”  
  
Hannah huffed as she sat up, hair cascading down her shoulders like a crimson waterfall. “Oh, Mycroft, why must you always assume Sherlock is to blame? It was my idea this time, actually. Although he did insist on helping.” Her green eyes twinkled.  
  
“Honestly. If you’re done regressing at least a decade, perhaps you would be so good as to get yourself ready? I’d like to leave before it gets dark.”  
  
“Oh alright, Mycroft, no need to be such a wet blanket. You used to be fun.”  
  
Mycroft sniffed. “I grew up.”  
  
Sherlock and Hannah rolled their eyes at each other. “Yes, yes, fine, let me go and pack then.” Hannah brushed past her older brother and headed towards her room. She turned around and called out, “Sherlock, don’t tell him where the other one is,” before she grinned and broke into a trot.  
  
Mycroft whipped his head around and pinned Sherlock with his stare. “The other one?”  
  
Sherlock smirked. “She’s just winding you up, there is no other one. That,” Sherlock pointed with distaste,” is the only one.”  
  
Mycroft sighed in resignation as he turned to presumably return the frog to its natural habitat.  
  
“Mycroft, wait,” Sherlock said, reaching out and grasping his brother’s arm. Mycroft faced him and gave him an expectant look.  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat. “You need to... keep an extra eye on her while she’s with you. She’s been a bit different lately. I’m not sure, and you wouldn’t know it by looking at her, but I think she might be depressed. Kids at school have been picking on her. You know what she’s like; she actually cares about what other people think; fitting in, and all that nonsense. She wouldn’t harm herself intentionally, but I do think she’ll be looking for a distraction, and she’ll probably be careless when she goes about it.  
  
“Also,” Sherlock lowered his voice and stepped closer, “I’ve noticed some signs of possible substance abuse. I haven’t found anything, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going on. She’s very clever at concealing things.”  
  
Mycroft sniffed. “Even if that were true, there are no drugs at my house, and she’d have no way of sneaking any in.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “You’re forgetting who she is, Mycroft. She’s more than capable of accomplishing anything she sets her mind to, including smuggling drugs into your home.”  
  
Mycroft tutted. “Really, Sherlock. Where do you get such ideas? What even makes you think that she’s using? Our sister is not a junkie.”  
  
“Are you even listening to me, Mycroft? Of _course_ she’s not a junkie. But she’s more sensitive than you realise - ”  
  
“She’s a teenager, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped. “And a girl. She’ll be prone to mood swings. It’s a phase, and she’ll grow out of it eventually. It’s just growing pains.”  
  
“It’s _not_ …. You know what? Just make sure she survives the week. Can you do that at least?”  
  
“Oh don’t be dramatic, Sherlock, really. You know how it always upsets Mummy.”  
  
Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Right. _I’m_ always the one upsetting people. I’m glad I live up to your expectations, then, I was _really_ worried about that.”  
  
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, little brother. Actually, I’m quite proud of the way you’ve turned out so far. I have high hopes, for both you and our sister. You’re going to take the world by storm.”  
  
Sherlock flushed, ridiculously pleased with the rare praise. “Yes, well... thank you,” he stammered. “Just… take care of her, yes?”  
  
Mycroft smiled. “She’s always safe with me, Sherlock; I promise you that.”  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
  
John’s fists clench as he sits in his chair, listening to Sherlock tell his story. He has a sinking feeling that he doesn’t want to hear the rest. He isn’t a stupid man, despite Sherlock’s intimations otherwise; he is perfectly capable of making his own deductions, especially when it comes to Sherlock.  
  
John clears his throat. “You never mentioned that you had a twin sister,” he says.  
  
Sherlock eyes him from the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes glitter in the encroaching evening shadows.  
  
“No,” he says softly, “I never mentioned that I once had a sister.”  
  
“Why didn’t you?”  
  
“This is the first time I’ve said her name in almost twenty years,” Sherlock explains, which is no kind of explanation at all. Silence reigns in the flat for an uncomfortable thirty seconds before Sherlock says, “Would you like me to continue?”  
  
“Yes,” John says without hesitation.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
John had always figured that his own sibling issues were much tamer than whatever had happened between Sherlock and Mycroft. He and Harry had never got on, but that was due more to personality differences than any real rancour between them. It hadn’t been until John had signed up for a second tour that the mutual indifference had become a rift.  
  
John had come home, flush with the excitement of promotion and of having saved his first life out in the field. His parents and his sister welcomed him back with enthusiasm, giving him the kind of homecoming that would have warmed any soldier’s heart. Unfortunately, this feeling didn’t last.  
  
John had already signed up for his next tour when his father died unexpectedly of a heart attack. The army extended his leave, of course, but he had every intention of returning once things at home were settled.  His mother accepted this; his sister did not.

One month after the funeral, Harry stormed into John’s room as he was packing for his return to duty. Her mouth was twisted in fury and she towered over him, both hands clenched tightly into fists.  
  
“How could you _do_ this to Mum?” she hissed, making John wince. “I wouldn’t expect you to stay for me, but she has _nobody_ now, Johnny. What if you go and get yourself killed this time, hmm? The adoption should go through soon, we're so close and neither I nor Clara can afford to take time off work to stay with her. I always knew you were selfish, but this – “  
  
“Selfish?” John threw down the shirt he was folding and turned to face her, face thunderous. “ _I’m_ selfish? How is it selfish to want to make use of my education and abilities to stop people from dying? Explain that to me.”  
  
“You could do that just as well in a hospital or a surgery, you don’t need to join the bloody _army!_ You’ve already paid your debt to them for medical school, why do you need to re-enlist?”  
  
“Because I _need_ it, alright?” John shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “I need to have a purpose, to feel useful, to _make a difference._ Is that really so hard to understand?”  
  
“Yes! Why can’t you do all those things as a regular doctor? Why do you need to be a soldier?”  
  
John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did nobody understand? He took a deep breath.  
  
“Because I protect people, Harry. It’s what I do best. When I’m out there, people rely on me to have their back and keep them safe. When I could no longer protect you, I had to move on to something else.”  
  
Harry huffed, crossing her arms defensively. “What made you think I was in need of protecting?”  
  
John stared. “I’m your older brother. That’s my job.”  
  
“Well, what do I need protecting from, exactly?”  
  
“Nothing. At least, not anymore. You’ve got Clara now; maybe she can keep an eye on your drinking. Lord knows I never could.”  
  
“Wait, what… _what?_ You thought I needed protecting from my _drinking?_ ”  
  
“…..Yes? Twice I found you passed out, once on the balcony in zero-degree weather and once in the bathtub. If I hadn’t been there – “  
  
“Oh, please!” Harry spat. “Do you think you _saved_ me or something? I’m the one who got sober, who hauled myself up by my bootstraps and made something of myself. I saved myself. I didn’t need you; I never needed you. In fact, Mum doesn’t need you either. I can take care of her myself. So just run along, Johnny boy, go off to get shot at. We’re all much better off without you!” She turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.  
  
Harry’s bitter rant caused John to flinch.  They hadn’t had a row like that in ages.  It certainly wasn’t the manner in which he wanted to part ways.  But what would be would be; he had learned long ago that he couldn’t control his sister’s behaviour, and he no longer wanted to.

When John came home again for a brief leave after their mum died, Harry avoided him as much as possible.  He tried to take it all in stride, reminding himself that she was an adult and could look after herself.  As she had so stridently reminded him, he was no longer needed, at least on the home front.

John returned to the army.  He and Harry gave up all pretence of staying in touch. The adoption never did go through, and Harry’s binge-drinking returned with a vengeance.  By the time three years had passed, Harry’s marriage was over, and John had got himself shot while unsuccessfully trying to stop a comrade from bleeding out.

 

And so with that final, ultimate betrayal of returning to the battlefield he craved so much, he not only failed to protect his little sister from herself; he also managed, in the process, to utterly and completely fail himself.

  
  
***

  
  
Guilt and an overwhelming sense of _uselessness_ followed him back to London. He sat alone in his drab bedsit and refused to call Harry, not wanting to be reminded of how incapable he was of maintaining relationships. He put off applying for jobs, because really, of what use is an ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor in his dominant hand? All of his training, all of his education, lost in an instant. A waste. He was a complete and utter waste of space.  
  
His eyes kept drifting to the drawer in which he kept his illegal gun.  
  
The sheer synchronicity of what happened next would boggle John’s mind for years to come.  
  
John was supposed to have been at his therapist’s at the time he found himself strolling through the park. Ella had called earlier that day, cancelling their appointment due to a family emergency. With nothing else to do, John picked up his cane and headed out. The weather was unseasonably warm for January, and he had a free hour, so off he went.  
  
As he passed a bench, a familiar voice from the past called out to him. He turned, and his life changed forever.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an Army doctor.”  
  
No use of the past tense. And no use of the term _ex_ -army doctor.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Any good?”  
  
John hesitated for just a second before answering.  
  
“Very good.”  
  
“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”  
  
“Mmm, yes.”  
  
  
“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”  
  
“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”  
  
“Wanna see some more?”  
  
“Oh God, yes.”  
  
  
And just like that, Dr John Watson was no longer a useless ex-army doctor with no purpose. He was at a crime scene, and Sherlock Holmes was asking him what he thought. He was asking for his _opinion._ He didn’t berate him for wanting to ‘see some more’, like he was a freak for getting off on excitement and adrenaline.  
  
Then Sherlock led him on a mad chase across London, during which John lost his psychosomatic limp. He hadn’t even _realised_ he had lost it until Sherlock mentioned something about proving a point. John had never felt so giddy.  
  
The climax of the evening, of course, was when he shot a man to save Sherlock’s life. Well, what he had _actually_ done was save Sherlock from himself; there had been no actual threat to Sherlock’s life other than the one Sherlock himself courted. He obviously needed a minder, and John was more than happy to provide.  
  
And the look that Sherlock gave him after he realised John had been the shooter was open and unguarded. It said, clear as day, “I can trust you.” He didn’t know at the time why Sherlock seemed so surprised by that fact.  
  
Captain John Watson was once again engaged on the battlefield, following the orders of his commanding officer. He was needed, wanted and, most important of all, appreciated. He fell into bed that night a very happy man.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Sherlock took one look at the man who had just entered the lab and immediately understood.  
  
This was someone who could very well end up as a statistic on the evening news. Perhaps even as soon as _this_ evening.  
  
When the stranger offered him his phone, Sherlock made a snap decision. This man… _John,_ apparently… was lonely and lost, and about to do something very unwise. The look in his eyes was the same one he had seen in his sister’s so many years ago. He hadn’t been able to prevent _that_ tragedy, but he could do his best to prevent this one. Because that’s what John Watson was… a tragedy waiting to happen.  
  
But there was also something else there. There was _potential._  
  
  
So Sherlock opened his mouth, and changed the trajectory of both their lives.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“Is that it?”  
  
“Is that what?”  
  
“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”  
  
“Problem?”  
  
“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”  
  
Sherlock spouted out a stream of deductions, watching John’s face the entire time. When he didn’t see even a trace of disgust or fear, he ended with, “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think? The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon.”  
  
Sherlock swept from the room with a wink, knowing in the depths of his bones that at seven o’clock the next evening, John would be meeting him to look at a flat.  
  
Later, when Sherlock sat in an ambulance and locked eyes with his flatmate, he realised that John wasn’t the only one gaining something that day. Sherlock had just found someone on whom he could thoroughly rely.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
**JUNE, 1991**  
  
  
  
He didn’t understand. How? _How?_ It was true that he hadn’t been around his siblings much since he had left for university, but he was sure that he knew them better than they knew themselves. And he was the most observant person in the country; he missed nothing, and nothing escaped his notice. Ever. They were still children, for god’s sakes, their personalities weren’t complex enough for them to be able to hide such a major issue.  
  
So Mycroft had ignored Sherlock’s warning, hadn’t really been paying attention when he had been called away to work on the fifth evening of Hannah’s visit. Hannah had been shadowing him at his office for the first few days. He had planned to take the rest of the week off but there was an emergency that he had to tend to. If there was anything to be concerned about regarding his sister, he was sure that he would already be aware of it, so he left her alone for a few hours while he returned to his job. It was a very important job, after all, and Mycroft had come to believe that the Work trumped everything else, even family obligations.  
  
It was well after two in the morning when he returned home, so he expected it to be quiet and dark. He also expected to fall right into bed after looking in on his sister. Alas, that was not to be.  
  
He could see the lights still burning in his front room as he approached his house. Apprehension immediately settled in his gut. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The living area was basically in the same state as when he had left several hours earlier, lights on and television blaring. His eyes rapidly scanned the room and noticed the few changes. A throw lying on the floor next to the couch. An open beer bottle sitting on the coffee table. Mycroft frowned. He kept all his alcohol locked away in his study.  
  
“Hannah?” he called out, shutting the door behind him. He hurried upstairs to his sister’s room. Light bled through from under her door. He knocked. “Hannah, are you still up?”  
  
There was no answer. Alarmed, Mycroft opened the door.  
  
The room was in disarray. The duvet was hanging off the bed; the pillows were scattered across the floor. The lamp had been knocked off the end table, and the phone was off the hook. Mycroft made his way to the other side of the bed and was met with what was to be his worst nightmare for the next eighteen years, until it was replaced with the death of his remaining sibling.  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Mycroft stared at the doctor’s notes. His vision kept inexplicably blurring, and he had to keep wiping his eyes as his mind struggled to comprehend what he was reading. The words swam in front of him, distorted and incoherent. His hands kept shaking, too. Why were they doing that?  
  
  
  
  
 ** _Fifteen-year-old female. Name Hannah Ivy Holmes.  
  
Dead on arrival.  
  
Estimated Time of Death: 3:30 am on June 15, 1991.  
  
Preliminary Cause of Death: heroin overdose, likely accidental.  
  
Body to be released to next of kin, mother, Mrs Violet Avery-Holmes, pending autopsy results._**  
  
  
The only thing that gave Mycroft any sense of comfort was that the overdose hadn’t been deliberate. Hannah had obviously sensed that something was wrong and had tried to call emergency services. The fact that he hadn’t been there to prevent the entire thing from happening in the first place effectively negated that comfort.  
  
His whole body trembled as he collapsed into a waiting chair. His awareness of his surroundings narrowed to the piece of paper in front of him. White noise filled his head until all that he was aware of were the following thoughts:  
  
  
  
 _She’s always safe with me, Sherlock; I promise you that.  
  
  
How did I miss this?  
  
  
He will never forgive me.  
  
  
He will never trust me again._  
  
  
  
And the final thought that would be the impetus for his raison d’etre for the rest of his life:  
  
  
 _I can’t lose him, too._

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
When Mycroft Holmes first saw John Watson through the lenses of his CCTV cameras, the words that immediately came to mind were: _Brave. Stupid. Suspicious. Depressed. Crippled. Weak. Useless._ Then when he met the man in person, the adjectives quickly changed to: _Loyal.  Trustworthy.  Courageous. Strong._   **_Protective._**  
  
And there had been another descriptor as well; something Mycroft had picked up on after listening to the conversation between his brother and Dr Watson via the bugs he had had discreetly placed in the lab Sherlock frequented.  
  
 _Generous._  
  
John was not only a protector. He was also a provider. When Sherlock, a complete stranger, had requested a phone, John had immediately stepped in and given him what he needed. Without hesitation, and without equivocation. Never mind that this stranger could not only have eaten up his texts and his minutes (if anyone even used such an archaic plan anymore), but he could have done any number of things with John’s phone that could have implicated him in various unsavoury scenarios.  
  
But Sherlock had needed a phone, and John had provided. Just like he had provided for the men and women under his command, and just like he had undoubtedly provided for his younger sibling.  
  
Mycroft felt a twinge of something like kinship. It was something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.  
  
Before their little impromptu meeting had come to an end, Mycroft had decided that John Watson moving in with Sherlock was a very fortuitous event, and not only for his brother’s sake. John missed the battlefield, and he had apparently found a commanding officer worthy of his allegiance. And Sherlock, for whatever reason, trusted John. He had invited John to move in with him minutes after meeting. Sherlock always worked alone; he never asked for help, and he never asked anyone’s opinion. And yet he had invited John to come to a crime scene with him.  
  
And John’s trust issues? Well. Any man who offered up his phone to someone he just met didn’t lack trust in others.  The problem was his lack of faith in his _own_ trustworthiness - a problem that was easily remedied.  
  
Yes, Mycroft smiled to himself as he situated himself in the back of his car. John Watson would serve his purposes quite nicely.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“I worry about him. Constantly.”  
  
“That’s nice of you.”  
  
  
 _No, Dr Watson, it’s not **nice** of me. It’s what I owe, a debt I need to pay. A debt that I will be paying for the rest of my natural life, with interest. And I am going to have you help me pay it.  
  
You are going to help me keep my brother alive._  
  
  


* * *

 

 

 

**JUNE,  2011**

 

John stared at Sherlock, mind still refusing to believe what his ears had just heard.  
  
Mrs. Hudson had just been shot… was _dying_ … and Sherlock didn’t react at all. He didn’t acknowledge what their landlady meant to both of them; he just shrugged and said “I’m busy.”  
  
 _Busy?_ What kind of uncaring, unfeeling, sociopathic _machine_ would be so casual about the knowledge of a loved one’s impending death?  
  
Filled with rage, John grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the lab, throwing a heated “Friends protect people” over his shoulder.  
  
He had no idea that in so doing he was leaving his charge... his _friend_ … unprotected. And that his biggest regret would change from abandoning Harry to leaving his best friend alone and vulnerable. Leaving him to die.  
  
John punished himself for his failure by volunteering to notify who he thought was Sherlock’s only remaining family of his friend’s death. He felt like a dead man walking as he stumbled into the Diogenes Club and forced himself to make his way to his doom.  
  
He stood in the doorway of the Stranger’s Room, still as a statue. His eyes were red-rimmed, and both of his hands were trembling. _The bravery of the soldier._  
  
John’s voice rasped out, “I failed, Mycroft. He’s dead. Your brother’s dead. I failed to protect him. I’m so sorry.”  
  
He collapsed into Mycroft’s waiting arms.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
Even after meeting Sherlock, John still struggled with what he perceived as personal incompetence. As a result, he had striven to prove himself worthy of the trust Sherlock placed in him, and to make himself indispensable to his friend’s work. He thought that he had succeeded, for the most part.  
  
Then Sherlock had thrown himself off a building, left John to go back to that unbearable life he had before they had met, and had come back expecting everything to go back to the way it was before. As if John hadn’t been completely shattered. As if John hadn’t, as a result, lost all faith in himself. As if nothing had changed, when _everything_ had.  
  
When Sherlock stood before him for the first time in two years, John snapped.  
  
“You utter bastard!” he had yelled. “You complete… and utter… _bastard!_ I thought that I had let you down. I left you, and you died, and all this time I thought it was _my fault!_ You _fucker!_ All this time, and all you cared about was winning a game.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John…”  
  
John snarled, “I should have known. I should have known after that “Dying Detective” case that it wouldn’t take much for you to cross the line and do one better. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do, is there, to solve a case and prove you’re clever? No matter who gets hurt in the process.”  
  
Sherlock stifled his hurt and drew himself up, gathering his armour around himself. “Your tiny little mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend my motivations. However, as always, you did manage to get one thing right. There _is_ nothing I wouldn’t do, but not for the reasons you listed.”  
  
“Oh really? What are your reasons, then?”  
  
“There are no lengths to which I would not go, John, to make sure the people I love stay alive and unharmed.”  
  
John blinked, momentarily derailed. “The people you… love?”  
  
“Yes, John, that’s what I said. Do keep up.” And Sherlock went on to explain why he had done what he did.  
  
But Sherlock’s explanation had only made things worse. John’s belief that Sherlock had trusted him, that he had shown he would do _anything_ to protect Sherlock, vanished like so much smoke. Because apparently Sherlock hadn’t trusted John enough to let him in on his secret, to let him go with him so that he could have Sherlock’s back. Sherlock hadn’t needed John in order to carry out his most important mission to date, and that fact made John feel more useless than his sister had ever managed to do.  
  
Eventually, John _had_ forgiven him, but it had been a grudging forgiveness at best, and things weren’t quite the same between them.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
John can’t feel any part of his body as Sherlock finishes his story. He is completely numb. He is aware of only two things: his thoughts and Sherlock’s face. Things start falling into place in his head; suddenly, so many things make sense. Mycroft’s smothering protectiveness. The hints at Sherlock’s history of drug use. Mycroft’s adamant order that John watch over Sherlock on the eve of Irene Adler’s ‘death’. The softness on Sherlock’s face when he unabashedly praises his deductive skills. The giggling in the hallway and at a crime scene.  
  
Sherlock is staring at John as if expecting him to flee the flat at any moment. John doesn’t know why he would expect that, but he needs to alleviate his flatmate’s fears as unequivocally as possible.  
  
“God, Sherlock,” he whispers hoarsely, hating the sound of his own voice. “I had no idea. I don’t know what to say.” He licks his lips. “I’m glad you told me. I didn’t realise… whatever I say will just be a cliché, but I’m so very sorry you had to go through that.”  
  
Sherlock nods. His face is stony and expressionless, but John knows better than to think that it reflects his emotions. His eyes have taken on a darker greenish hue which has only happened once before, in front of a fireplace in Dartmoor. This is an indication that he doesn’t know how to process the turbulent feelings that he is… well, _feeling._  
  
“John,” Sherlock begins, stumbling over his words, “I… I need you to understand something. The thing with Moriarty - please believe me; it’s not that I didn’t _trust_ you; I’ve _always_ trusted _you._ ”  
  
  
John swallows. He is about to say something when Sherlock lifts a hand, halting his words.  
  
“You see, Mycroft wasn’t the only one who had failed Hannah. I was the closest to her, and even I didn’t see what was happening until it was too late. When Moriarty threatened you, I couldn’t let myself fail again. I could never trust Mycroft with my own life, and there was no way I was going to trust him with yours. I thought that maybe… just _maybe_ … I could protect you as you’ve always protected me. As I failed to do for my sister.”  
  
Understanding floods in. The last pieces to the puzzle slip into place. Sherlock’s sharing of this last part of himself, the final proof of his trust in John, gives John what he needs to fully trust himself again. And now that he knows that Sherlock had never lost faith in him… well, now he can give Sherlock his full forgiveness.  
  
“Do you have a picture of her?” John asks.  
  
A surprised look flits across Sherlock’s face. He nods. Silently he retrieves his wallet and takes out a worn and faded photograph. Wordlessly he hands it to John.  
  
John’s eyes drink in the image of a pretty teen-aged girl, fiery curls framing her freckled face. She is beaming into the camera, bright green eyes flashing merrily and nose scrunched in laughter. Her arm is thrown around a young boy, dark curls and a scowl confirming his identity. Hannah looks nothing like her brothers.  
  
“She’s beautiful,” John says softly.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock acknowledges. “My mother loved all her children, but after Hannah died, she found it… difficult to be around me. I was a constant reminder of what we all had lost. She never meant to neglect or ostracise me, but that’s essentially what happened. We speak very rarely.”  
  
“It’s not an ideal situation, but I can understand how it happened,” John says. He hands back the photo, which Sherlock takes and reverently places back in his wallet.  
  
Sherlock tilts his head and gives John an appraising look. “You know, you’re not just a substitute for what Hannah is unable to and Mycroft is incapable of providing. You’re not some sort of proxy for the family I no longer have.”  
  
John smiles gently. He reaches over and grasps Sherlock’s knee lightly. “Except that I am. It’s no problem, Sherlock. You’re my family, too. You and Mrs Hudson. The only ones that matter.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flick to John’s hand on his knee, then back to John’s face. John feels a warm glow in the pit of his stomach. He has become very good at reading Sherlock’s thoughts from his facial expressions and body language, and what he is saying right now is very clear. He hadn’t really thought they would ever get to this point; he honestly isn’t even sure what ‘this point’ is. He doesn’t care.  
  
He smiles and squeezes Sherlock’s knee again as he slowly leans in, giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away. Sherlock mirrors his movements, eyes closing and lips parting slightly. John places his other hand on Sherlock’s neck, and gently kisses him.  
  
It is everything he ever imagined it would be.  
  
  
***  
  
  
John blinks awake the next morning, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then his eyes focus on the opposite wall, recognising the details of the periodic table, and he smiles. Memories of the previous night flood his consciousness, and warmth blooms in his chest. He turns his head and is both surprised and pleased to see a shock of black curls resting on the pillow next to him. Sherlock is facing away from him, so he feels safe just lying there and letting his eyes rake over his flatmate’s prone form.  
  
John feels like their relationship has been heading towards this culmination for quite some time, and he doesn’t just mean the new intimacy. Yesterday had solidified an aspect of their friendship that had not previously been as strong as it should have been.  
  
The aspect of trust.  
  
John breathes a sigh of relief as he reaches over to his still sleeping flatmate and runs his fingers through the silken curls. For the first time in two years, perhaps for the first time in his life, he feels like he has really and truly come _home_.  
  
Leave it to Mycroft Holmes to shatter the peace of an otherwise _lovely_ morning.  
  
  
***  
  
  
John reluctantly leaves the cocoon of Sherlock’s bed to take a shower. Twenty minutes later he flips the kettle on and wanders into the lounge, absently towelling off his damp hair, when he is brought up short by the presence of a suited man sitting in his armchair. John sighs. Apparently, their lack of privacy is to continue unabated.  
  
“Mycroft,” John says. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Good morning, John,” Mycroft replies. His eyes sweep over John’s bare-chested, boxer-clad form, observing and deducing everything that has happened within the last twelve hours. His eyes widen.  
  
“I see,” he says tersely as an unfathomable expression crosses his face. “Tell me, Dr Watson, do you often wander around the flat in such dishabille? Especially going on half eleven?”  
  
John scowls as he feels his face heat up. “What business is it of yours? It’s my flat; I can wander around in it _naked_ if I wish. Something tells me you know very well what our domestic habits are like, including our waking and sleeping routines.”  
  
John turns around and stomps back into the bathroom. He grabs his dressing gown, dons it, and steps back into the living area. “What is it that you want, Mycroft?”  
  
Mycroft ignores the question. “Interesting. You didn’t head up to your room after finishing your shower; you came in here, intending, I assume, to make your way to… Sherlock’s room. Where I’m guessing the rest of your clothing is. It seems my brother still trusts _you_ , after everything,” he continues with a trace of bitterness. “Even though I’m the one he had to rely on to ensure his safe return.”  
  
John shrugs, refusing to be baited. He does feel a twinge of sympathy for Mycroft, but the brothers would have to work all of that out for themselves. He continues rubbing at his wet hair as he says, “Obviously he didn’t care about his own safety, but about mine and – “  
  
“ _Your_ safety, and that of others he chooses to surround himself with, has _never_ been my concern,” Mycroft snaps heatedly. “The only thing that has _ever_ been important to me is the well-being of my little brother. Anything else is secondary.”  
  
“And that of your little sister.”  
  
The blood drains from Mycroft’s face. His entire body becomes as tense as a taut wire as he grips the arms of John’s chair, anchoring himself in place. It takes every ounce of his willpower to keep from reflexively bolting up and fleeing the room.  
  
“Sherlock told you about Hannah?” he chokes out.  
  
John nods. He sits down in Sherlock’s chair and leans forward. “Mycroft,” he says, not unkindly, “Sherlock needed to, for once, take charge of his own destiny and do what was important to _him._ You can’t keep trying to control him in the name of your own redemption. He’s proven that he’s more than capable of doing what needs to be done, and surviving in the process. You need to back off, just a little, and let him live his own life. He’ll do just fine, I promise you.”  
  
Mycroft smiles sadly as he lets himself relax a fraction, his hands loosening their death-grip on the chair. “Only because you’ll be there, John. It’s time for me to admit that you’ve saved his life more times than I have. I let my work come first, before my own siblings. I nearly lost both of them as a result. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for you, my brother would have been dead the day after your first meeting.”  
  
John’s blood runs cold at the thought. What if he had never had the chance to move in with Sherlock? What if he had never been blessed with running through the streets of London next to the best man he has ever known? He shivers; it doesn’t bear thinking about.  
  
He forces a smile. “We take care of each other.”  
  
“Mycroft, are you here _again?_ You certainly are tenacious,” rumbles a familiar voice from somewhere behind John. Light footsteps pad into the kitchen and the sound of tea bags rustling carries into the living room. John can’t keep himself from grinning like a school boy.  
  
“Morning, Sherlock,” John calls out, trying his best to moderate the amount of affection that bleeds into his voice. He gets a grunt in response as Sherlock walks out carrying a steaming mug in each hand.  
  
Sherlock places one mug in front of John and the other in front of his brother before flopping himself down on the sofa. Mycroft quirks an eyebrow in surprise. Sherlock clears his throat and stares at the ceiling. Twenty seconds pass before he speaks.  
  
“I have recently been informed that you didn’t _actually_ sell me out to my greatest enemy.” His eyes continue to track the crack above his head. “I also am aware that, although you thought I was dead and gone, you still made sure that John was taken care of. Because of you, he was able to remain in our home and, to a great extent, continue our work so that he didn’t completely regress to his prior unbearable state.”  
  
He finally meets his brother’s eyes. “Thank you.”  
  
Mycroft holds his gaze and nods as he takes a sip of his tea.  
  
 _Our home. Our work._ John flushes with the twin emotions of embarrassment and pleasure.  
  
“This doesn’t mean the debt is paid, Mycroft; not by a long shot,” Sherlock warns.  
  
Mycroft lowers his eyes. “Of course not,” he says softly.  
  
“John!” Sherlock proclaims.  
  
John jumps, barely avoiding scalding himself with hot tea.  
  
“Would you be so kind as to retrieve my drink from the kitchen?”  
  
“Christ, Sherlock!” John huffs in exasperation as he gingerly sets his mug down. “Couldn’t you have got it when you brought the others out?”  
  
“I only have two hands, John, how was I supposed to carry three mugs at once?”  
  
“You could have… you know what? Never mind. I’ll just go… get your beverage for you, your highness.” John glances at Mycroft as he stands up, and almost breaks out into giggles at the man’s small smile of commiseration. _Yep, just like dealing with a child. And he would know._  
  
As John makes his way into the kitchen, he hears Sherlock ask, “Go over the details from yesterday again, Mycroft, I wasn’t really paying attention then. Where are you sending us off to this time?”  
  
  
***  
  
  
At around five o’clock p.m., a bare-chested and bare-foot Sherlock pads out of the bathroom. There’s a white towel draped over his shoulder, his lower face and neck is lathered in shaving cream, and he is holding a straight razor. John looks up from the paper he’s reading and freezes.  
  
“What are you doing?” John asks weakly.  
  
Sherlock hands the blade to John. He turns around and walks back into the bathroom. He sits down on the toilet and waits.  
  
John swallows. He knows what this is about. Sherlock thinks he still has something to prove. John wonders if it has something to do with the nature of their changed relationship. Whatever the reason, Sherlock seems to need this, and John has never been very good at denying him anything that he needs. As he stands up, he realises that it’s something _he_ needs as well.  
  
John clutches the blade in his left hand. He grabs a stool from the kitchen, then walks into the bathroom, breathing steady and nerves calm. He places the stool in front of his friend. Their eyes meet; he sees warmth and trust reflected back at him in Sherlock’s grey orbs. John blinks back the moisture that seems to be forming in his eyes.  
  
Sherlock tilts his chin up, exposing his neck. John gently lays the razor against the skin. His hand is perfectly steady.  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
  
Later that night (early the next morning), as he lies in the arms of his best friend (life partner), John thinks back over the past forty-one years of his life and wonders if there had been a time when he had felt more complete. He thinks about all the institutions he has belonged to. A family: two parents and two kids, a boy and a girl. University: classmates, rugby mates and housemates. The army: a structured hierarchy, officers, subordinates, comrades-in-arms. The goal of each had been to provide a sense of connection, community and purpose.  
  
For John, that goal had never been reached in its entirety until he had become a member of 221B Baker Street.  
  
A warm, clean-shaven body behind him breathes into his neck and softly whispers, “I love you.”  
  
A small smile graces his lips as his thoughts scatter and he drifts into sleep.  
  
  
 **THE END**


End file.
